King Philomon, Philomon the fish, lays surrounded by royal readers who slip words trying to sooth his wounds in utterance of long limericks repeated. King Philomon's son, awaits his fathers death in silence, as feet shuffle around him in apologetic tones. Scared for his new responsibilities and scared from the pressure from those who look to him and those who watch over him, the prince begins to cry. Fools, fools, fools, all of them, especially him. Stupid boy, do not cry, does he not know that the people can hear? Does he want them to think him weak? Does he not know that the title of king is not passed down, it is taken. 

In strings of thin words that slip through cracks and louder voices, I: speak. The people do not care who is King, or at least that is what I’ve been telling them. Or at least that is what I have heard. I sweep through the streets like wind, spreading rumour and my truth. 

“Have you heard the king is sick? What a shame, what a shame!” 

“Have you heard the king is nearly dead, laying sickly upon his bed?” 

“Have you heard the king is leaking from all ends?” 

Being one of the people, being one of the few that have thought and vision, I slither. I conjure and I concoct bright new visions of royalty too sick, too small, too stupid to lead. They will be swallowed by my serpent mouth, because it is not as if I am lying. They would not be even able to tell if I was lying. 

“Have you heard the king was poisoned? How corrupt, how corrupt!” 

“Have you heard the king has died? Oh my, oh my.”  

“Have you heard that soon we will have a new king? Yes! The young Prince Peter.” 

The speakers, the wizards of the court, and the crown have only now realised that “their” people are in dismay. They get what they say from a book and read it aloud drawling, like unmemorized latin scripture. 

“People listen here, the King, is not dead, the King is not, sick. The King is in recovery, after battle with… those barbarians who troubled you all so terribly, and is resting. The King, is strong and the King, will be returning… soon.”  

Their spells are weak. They are no match to me. I speak from my soul and the people now carry my message creating passion and emotion that burns like fire, the same fire they will soon be burning in. 

If only King Philomon could speak, then I would be worried. He speaks and the people's ears fuzz and their body’s cover with pins and needles. A powerful warlock, a powerful King. Ha, well not anymore.

 As King Philomon’s court and crown struggle in shambles, I must pick my moment to speak and to give speech publicly. Not now however, first the people must speak for me and I must push “their” thoughts even farther. 

“Lies Lies, I heard he was sick and now he’s dead.” 

Crowds gather and waves form. A quick response is in order; Off of the top of courts head. Maybe in speech from the heart the court can settle and calm the ocean. 

“No no, the King is not erm… I mean, the King is fine. The King is not dead.” 

Failure on all fronts and the crowd erupts. 

“You lie, everyone knows you lie.” 

“I do not lie, do not question me, I speak on behalf of the King!” 

Ah but where is the king? I do not need to say anything.

“Why does the King not speak for himself if he is healthy?” 

Truly a shame the King cannot speak. He wrote the books they read from, when he came into power he took the crown the same way I will. What a shame he cannot speak, these poor foolish aristocratic leeches, they can no longer suckle on the tit of King Philomon. 

“The King is dead, we all know he is dead!” 

I cannot help myself, throwing jabs and poking holes into such weak casting. 

“Have you heard he died like a fish?” 

“I heard the King died like a fish!”

“Do not speak of the King that way! You plebeian surf, go back to your piles of mud and rocks stop sullying these royal grounds with your presence” 

“Haha Philomon the fish, flopping and bonking, what an idiot.”

“How dare you insult our King, treason, treason! You’ll hang for this you impudent fools”

“You cannot hang all of us!”

One more 

“Have you heard the prince is too young to lead?”

“I do not take orders from a child, the Prince is no leader, I'm not wiping his ass, and you all were the ones who killed the fish! All of you should hang! Death to the court, Death to the crown!”

Soon I will make my presence known, soon I will take what is mine. The people will accept me as I am one of the people and it is only a matter of time. They are already repeating my words and soon they will be chanting my name. Prince Peter is too young to speak eloquently, to speak with purpose, to speak with command. I am sure that if he were just three years older, he may speak like his father once did. He would cast powerfully, and his words would carry in pockets, and print into the front of peoples throats. He could take the throne, he could take the King. How unfortunate for him that the people will never hear his divine calls, and the scripture that would fall out of his mouth flooding the streets with unity. How unfortunate for him. How fortunate for me. There is no one, and nothing, that will counter my machinations and spells. The people paint, and scratch my runes into the streets forming circles and pentacles. Walls, floors, roads, tables, desks, railings, streetlights, and the backs of buildings all hold my inscriptions. 

“Have you heard the court is corrupt? Have you heard that the crown is too young? Listen here, listen here, have you heard the King is dead? Listen close and listen now, we the people, we the storm, we the ones who work the land, we people must stop seeping sand. I do not speak of killing, after all, King Philomon had always secured our own, but the King is dead so we the people must take the shifting throne…”